Consummate
by infogdss29
Summary: What Quinn doesn’t know, what NONE of those Lima Losers know, is that it was his first time.


Disclaimer: I do not own Glee (or Desperate Housewives) or any of its related characters. No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers: Preggers

Author's Note: This is my first Glee story. My first fanfic, ever, actually. Feedback very much appreciated! This is intended to be a one-shot, but I may write a sort of spin-off, like Quinn's version…

* * *

He might have exaggerated the cougar thing, a little. After all, he's known as a consummate flirt and has a reputation to uphold. That hot old chick with the lemonade and enticingly swaying hips, her fine ass barely concealed in that tiny purple cover-up? Sure, he followed her into her house, and she threw herself at him, purring while running her talons over his tight abs and newly corded arms, the muscles fresh from his summer spent lifting weights in preparation for August's football hell week (he's going to be a starter this year). One thing was leading to another, but he got a little too enthusiastic and before he could even remove the lacy thong from her lipo'd thighs with his teeth, it was over.

He'd jumped up so fast he knocked his drink over, fleeing in humiliation with his tank top pressed to his front of his pants as he heard the tinkle of glass shattering and ice cubes clattering across her tiled living room floor. He never did go back to collect his payment for checking the chemical levels in her hot tub.

In the weight room the next day, someone comments they saw him on their block, getting into his truck, shirtless, at Ms. Smith's house, and was he tapping that shit? Immediately, he sees the potential and latches onto the idea, egging them on with his trademark smug smirks. He can't believe no one notices the pool boy story is a direct rip-off from that _Desperate Housewives_ show his mom likes to watch. That's not to say he wouldn't like to nail a cougar, but it just didn't happen. Hey, for the record, he NEVER claimed to be a reliable narrator, so sue him.

He's always been full of false bravado; it's not his fault if they are too stupid to recognize it. He was a scrawny underdog type all through junior high, and that mantle of confidence was his only ticket, back in the day, to finding some girl who wouldn't mind engaging in a little tongue wrestling, but really, that's pretty much all he's done, in spite of the rumors that add a swagger to his step, a quirk to his brow, a twinkle to his eyes.

* * *

The night it happens, Finn is off on some Labor Day family vacation. One of the Cheerios throws a Saturday night party, a last hurrah of the summer before school starts next week, to celebrate the end of grueling cheer routines and football practices in 96 degree September-in-Ohio heat. He has to take a piss and someone is worshipping the porcelain god on the first floor, so he climbs the staircase to the off-limits second floor, locating a bathroom in the dark master bedroom, which is surprisingly empty, considering the combination of alcohol and skin baring outfits at this soiree. He does his business, breaking the seal for the first time all night, but really only a little buzzed from his fourth beer in as many hours. He likes the truck he has worked so hard to pay for all summer, and he's not going to crack it up driving home drunk.

He's washing his hands with a little seashell-shaped soap when he hears something. He cranks the water off and cocks his head, listening with a frown. He hears it again as he flips the lights off, a muffled but unmistakably female whimper.

He follows the noise to a louvered closet door, cracked open a few inches. He stands outside, holding his breath--_does he want to make this his problem? He's not exactly the knight in shining armor type_--but when he hears that soft, hiccuping noise a third time, it tugs at his heart, the way his little sister's weeping did, after his old man bailed. He sighs and pushes the door open, and the light spilling over from the hallway illuminates the last person he expected to see showing that kind of vulnerable, heartbreaking despair, especially not dressed in a perky yellow sundress--_such a change from her usual Cheerio skankplate_--that he noticed earlier, when he reached past her in the kitchen to drag a beer from a giant bucket full of half melted ice, Bud, and wine coolers. The dress is snug in the chest, and dips to reveal her perfect breasts. The thin shoulder straps expose most of her lightly tanned shoulders, which are shaking as she cries silently into her arms, a huddle of misery in the far corner nestled between a stack of folded quilts and a thing that looks like slanted bookshelves, but contains rows of shoes.

Quinn lifts her beautiful, tear-streaked face, squinting as she sucks in a shuddering breath at his intrusion into her private pity party, before burrowing her face back into her arms. She delivers a husky, quavering order from the space between her arms and drawn-up knees: "Go the fuck, away, Puck."

He obeys, turning, but only to walk over to the bedroom door, shut it, and turn the lock. The light from the hall is a thin crack under the door as he crosses the room and nudges the closet door all the way open. The walk-in is almost as large as his bedroom at home. He crawls on his hands and knees towards her. She doesn't curse at him again, just quivers with repressed sobs. He sighs. _Friggin' chicks, always so hormonal._ He rests on his heels, facing her, and puts a cool hand on the back of her warm neck.

"C'mere," he practically growls, and tugs at her. She resists at first, but then relents, crumpling against him, and then his other arm is around her, holding her, letting her hot tears soak his new gray long-sleeved shirt, the v-necked one with the black armbands that his mom bought him to wear to school that he isn't supposed to be wearing yet.

He doesn't even ask what's wrong; he's not sure he wants to know, anyway. His chin rests on the silkiness of her hair, pulled into its usual tight, smooth ponytail. He kisses the top of her head as his fingers rub the back of her neck, the other hand stroking her back, soothing, not judging her or whispering platitudes like, _it'll be okay_ or begging her to stop. Eventually, she draws a deep shaky breath, and sniffles, but doesn't break away. Her hands clutch his shirt at his waist, clenching and releasing, kneading like a cat.

She mops her face against his shoulder and sighs. He kisses her temple and then her damp cheek and is aiming for the other one when then she turns her head to kiss his cheek in return and it's truly an accident when their lips meet, for the first time.

This isn't the way he meant to comfort her, but her lips are so soft, he can't tear his away, just freezes and waits for her to slap him, but she lingers… and kisses him again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows she's his best friend's girl, but all's fair in love and war, and he has been a little in love with the untouchable Quinn Fabray since the fifth grade, when she defended him, after Dave Karofsky accused him of stealing his favorite GI Joe. Hands on hips, green eyes glittering, she'd told their teacher "Noah Puckerman is a jerk, but he isn't a thief!"

_Fuck it_, he thinks and sweeps his tongue across her lower lip, and damn if she doesn't open her mouth to him. He delves. She tastes like strawberries and something else: sweet, with a hint of tartness underneath (_lemon? kiwi? what kind of wine cooler did he hand her earlier?_) and it's a fitting combination, because that's exactly what the head cheerleader is: tantalizing in an American's sweetheart sort of way on the surface, but with an acidic undertone that can turn venomous in the blink of an eye, when she wills it.

He tugs the elastic from her hair, and slips it onto his wrist, thinking _trophy_, then slides his fingers through the soft tresses, cradling her skull in his palm as she kisses him back, hungrily. His mouth moves to her neck, careful not to suck at her skin hard enough to leave a mark. Her hair tickles the back of his other hand as she throws her head back in abandon, her breathing ragged.

He pushes the strap of her dress down and kisses her shoulder, then shifts and pulls her onto his lap so she is straddling him, thighs pressed around his, her skirt all rucked up around her hips, and _fuck_, he can feel her heat through his jeans. He contemplates the material of her panties (_silk? satin?_) that enable her provocative slide against his denim-clad loins. He gasps as her hands snake under his shirt and her hands caress his pecs, one finger circling the ring in his left nipple. He stops kissing her long enough to rip his shirt off, rather gracelessly, before reaching behind her to fumble at the complicated fastenings of her dress with shaking fingers, desperate to feel her bare skin against his, waiting for her to call a halt to this, whatever this is, at any moment, but she never does.

She's the one who asks him if he has a condom. _Of course he does, he's been carrying one around since like, eighth grade_. She doesn't need to know it's just another prop in crafting the illusion that he is a stud. He digs it out, tossing his wallet aside, and shoves his jeans and boxer briefs down with one hand, not even bothering to undo buttons or his belt. He can't wait to dispense with his virginity, but in the brief pause that his lips aren't touching hers, he remembers this is her first time too, and doing it at a party in a closet might not be the stuff that young girl's dreams are made of.

He says her name for the first time. "Quinn." Takes a breath. "Are you sure?" He immediately wants to kick himself, but as much of an asshole as he might be, he's not a rapist.

He can't see her nod in the dark, but she wraps a hand around him and he groans as she kisses him, and takes her silent response for acquiescence. His heart is pounding out a staccato rhythm against hers and he's going to embarrass himself in a minute if she doesn't knock it off, so he cups her face in his hands and kisses her, easing her back and shifting his lower body away from her. He kisses her everywhere, tells her _she's perfect, so beautiful, so hot, feels so good_, savoring the scent of her perfume between her breasts, the soft musk of her sweat behind her knee, the rough blister on her heel. He might not have done this before, but he's not an idiot, plus the Internet is for porn, after all. He nuzzles his way back up, cursing the dark as he pauses at the apex of her thighs, wondering what color the hair there before dipping his head to taste her, writing _Puck loves Quinn_ with his tongue until she's panting and softly pleading.

Only then does he roll the rubber on and precariously inch his way forward, gritting his teeth and visualizing guitar chords, football plays, trying to think about anything but how incredible she feels. She shocks the hell out of him when she knocks his hand away to replace it with her own, and then does this thing where she rolls her hips and it doesn't seem to hurt her, and _wait, she's DONE this before?!_ The shock gains him an extra moment or two, but then she's writhing under him, and something primal takes over. Her neatly manicured nails dig into his back as the force of his release rips though the three-year-old condom.

When he comes back to himself, he rests his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath, and slowly gropes for his pants, pretty sure that he's got a napkin or two in his pocket from his last foray for snacks at 7-11. He does, and offers one to her, never noticing the condom is busted as he deposits it into the paper napkins.

He doesn't say anything, just kisses her, slowly, tenderly, trying to demonstrate his gratitude because he's sure as hell not going to say it. She lingers for a moment, and then turns her head. Her breath scalds his ear and turns him to ice as she hisses, "This never happened."

She yanks her hair elastic from his wrist. Frozen, he listens to the soft rustle of her tucking her hair back up into its tightly controlled tail. He can practically smell her concentration as she struggles to zip her dress in the dark while his heart does a slow sink into his toes. He puts a tentative hand on her back, intending to assist, and she twists, jerking away from him. She kicks his ankle by mistake as one foot roots for a lost sandal, finds it, and slips past him, closing the closet door behind her. He hears the bathroom door open and shut. Water runs. The toilet flushes. He numbly draws on his pants. He tips his head, listening, as she emerges and her feet pad past the closet. And then he hears the click of the lock to the master suite.

As the light from the hallway spills through the louvers and falls on his face, it dawns on him that this was just a fluke, she is never going to break up with Finn. _The player has been played_. He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his tear-stained shirt, yanking the hem down around his waist. He gathers the evidence of this tryst, double-checks for his wallet, and slips out through a convenient window over the back porch, half hoping he'll break his neck as he shimmies over the edge and drops to the ground. He lands on his feet. _Doesn't he always?_

* * *

At school, Quinn's eyes purposefully never meet his own, so he deliberately needles her, much to Finn's bewilderment; he even resorts to hitting on Santana, just so they can double and Quinn will be forced to breathe the same air he does, again, but thanks to the loan he took out for the truck, his credit score isn't high enough to cop a feel, let alone screw her, and he's unceremoniously dumped, back to third wheel status.

He knows they all think he's a player, and a douchebag, and careless with people's hearts. But what Quinn doesn't know, what NONE of those Lima Losers know, is that it was his first time. Even if it wasn't hers.


End file.
